


And So It Goes

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, M/M, Major Character Injury (off-screen), Resistance Fighter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7682146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. “Don't say anything yet,” Jack tells him, breathless, his cold fingertips pressing under the hem of Mark's shirt, and it sounds close to begging. “Not yet. Please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Bastille/Naughty Boy's song, "No One's Here to Sleep" on the way home today and this is what came to me. I'm really tired but I wanted to write it, and it's been a while since I uploaded a oneshot.
> 
> I do like this piece. There's a large universe here and I've always been fond of Resistance Fighter!Jack. 
> 
> Anyway. I hope you guys like it--please enjoy!

He wakes to the lock clanking like no tomorrow.

Mark jolts up, his heart seizing in his chest in an unbridled sort of fear—no one has ever come into his house this late, not without sending a comm first, at the very least. Living in this house alone for weeks on end makes him cautious of anything that isn't announced before it arrives. 

Grabbing the knife from the bedside table—the one Jack forces him to keep there—Mark eases himself out of bed and steps onto the carpeted floor with a soft squeak. Pulling his hoodie on over his head, he opens the door with his knife pointed outwards, tentatively stepping out into the living room.

The soft whir of the drift greets him before the door shuts. Mark's grip on his knife tightens as he turns the corner, ready to stab it into anyone who might want to harm him.

“It's me,” Jack hisses, and _God_ , his voice is so raw. “It's me, Mark. It's me.”

He drops it without a word. Mark thinks about crossing the space between them, but Jack's already doing it, and before he knows it, Jack's taking his face into his fingerless, gloved hands and kissing him.

In a way, Mark's surprised by his sudden tenacity. Whenever Jack kisses him, it's usually slow and tender, such a soft way for such an abrasive person. But tonight, it reflects him perfectly—it's rough and possessive, full of bites and yet it feels like it's an awkward hello.

Jack's been gone for three months, this round. It used to be a few weeks in the beginning—one or two, three at most, but lately it's been months. Mark keeps pretending that someone else lives here with him, that there's nothing amiss in the drift and that Sean McLoughlin is his partner in all things, but he rarely leaves the house.

Truth is, Jack is a resistance fighter. He's always been—and Mark's always known, since he liberated his home a few years back. His little team tears down the big corporates who take advantage of small towns like his, because the capitol turns a blind eye. Their entire existence is spread throughout an elaborate set of drifts, artificial platforms that support life—all interconnected by the capitol city in the center. But Mark lives in the outer sector.

The capitol tends to ignore what doesn't directly affect them. That's where Jack comes in. 

His home had been on the brink of collapse when Jack and his crew came in—showing up under the still of the night, meticulously planning each move until one day, the corporation, Blacksmith United, disappeared. 

Jack had taken up residence with him, bloody and bruised from a few skirmishes, and Mark had patched him up. It had been the beginning of whatever they were now—lovers of some kind.

“You're welcome to come back if you ever need to,” Mark had told him, because never would he be able to properly thank him for saving his home and Jack had smiled at him in such a way that felt like a promise.

Sure enough, he had. From the News Comms, Mark heard of Jack's exploits, but whenever one was successful, he always came back to Mark. 

He's here now, solid and tangible and it feels good, Mark thinks. Because sometimes he's so afraid Jack won't come back, that when he leaves in the morning it'll be the last time he ever sees his goofy smile green hair. It's his signature—the Green Knight, some people call him.

In the meanwhile, Jack's putting his mouth wherever he can—his cheeks and along his jaw, down the dip of his neck. Every time their lips meet Mark tries to convey some sort of comfort, because obviously something's bothering him and he wants to know what.

“Don't say anything yet,” Jack tells him, breathless, his cold fingertips pressing under the hem of Mark's shirt, and it sounds close to begging. “Not yet. Please.”

Mark swallows his words, and let's Jack kiss him again, and again, and again, drinking him in, taking every bit of oxygen Mark has and greedily breathing it in himself. Whatever little space between them closes, their chests pressed together, and Mark's so fucking happy he can feel him, warm in the chill of the drift.

They kiss for what feels like hours, nipping and biting and sliding against one another, until Jack finally breathes out, pressing his forehead to Mark's. It's only then that Mark notices his right eye is bandaged. 

He reaches up to touch it, and Jack flinches away.

“Let's go and lay down,” Jack murmurs, grabbing his hand, though he doesn't pull away quite yet. “Okay?”

Mark nods, and still gripping his hand as though his life depends on it, Jack pulls him towards the bedroom. He could laugh at how Jack's wandering this place like he owns it—but he's been here so many times that Mark can see how he knows it like the back of his hand, even in the dark.

Soft thumping greets Mark as he walks to his side of the bed, and he notices Jack fiddling with his boots, kicking them off and tossing them into the corner of the room. He lets out a quiet breath, one he didn't know he'd been holding, because taking his boots off means he has the intention of staying more than a couple of hours, and that he isn't worried about being interrupted. 

Sliding into bed, Jack sighs, and when Mark climbs in next to him, he immediately goes to his side. He puts a cautious arm around him and Jack presses his face into Mark's chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly between his fingers.

It's moments like these that Mark remembers Jack's younger than him—only by a couple of years, but sometimes he still seems fragile, and gentle. For all that he fights, at the end of the day, he's barely capable enough to take care of himself. He is the perfect picture of determination when he's fighting the war between the powerful and the powerless, but in moments like these he's so small.

“We had the biggest civilian casualty today,” Jack breathes against his chest. “We didn't know, but—where we were hiding out, they—they blew the place up, smoked up the whole drift. But God, so many people were caught in the crossfire. Sam cried his eyes out. Felix almost got himself shot and killed.” 

“You couldn't have known,” Mark mumbles, pressing a gentle kiss to his head, smoothing his hand down Jack's back. “It's not your fault.”

“I should've been smarter,” Jack counters. “Never set up base near any civilian territory. I didn't think, though—I didn't think they'd know. We're really good about covering our tracks. Felix thinks someone ratted on us. I don't know.”

He's shaking. Mark squeezes him gently.

“What happened to your eye?” he asks, because he needs to know. He wants to know what's happened to Jack since he'd last seen him. 

“Shrapnel,” Jack answers. “Got stuck. Marzia had to pull it out, but there wasn't much she could do for my eye. She patched it up the best she could, bandaged it. Cry is looking into getting me a replacement, but we're laying low for now, after that fiasco.”

A tiny, selfish part of Mark is glad for that, because Jack is here and warm against him and it scares the shit out of him thinking Jack could have lost so much more than an eye.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Mark says, not knowing what else there is to say. There isn't much else he can. “I was scared. It's been longer than usual.”

Jack sighs again, his breath ghosting over Mark's chest. “I'm sorry. I was just—God, after what's been going down—they're trying so hard to kill us. It's like a war against power-hungry terrorists. They want us dead so badly. I didn't know how far they'd go. I didn't—I didn't want you to end up as a casualty too.”

Mark swallows, understanding his fear. He doesn't voice how he's so scared of the same thing for him, every single day. 

“I'll be here for a while,” Jack says, as though that will bring him some sort of ease, and in a way, it does. “We can go look at the stars. Just you and me. Felix got me some vintage soda from like, the 21st century. It'll be awesome.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Mark says, and he means it, but right now all he wants to do is sleep for a few hours and wake up to Jack still in his arms. That's the best thing he could be given, fancy soda be damned. “Can we sleep now?”

Jack snuggles closer, and he takes that as a yes. 

For a moment, Mark just lets himself feel Jack's heartbeat, rhythmic and consistent. It's a comforting sound, a reminder that whatever he's got, he's got for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thank you so much!


End file.
